


unfinished whatever

by orphan_account



Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Мор. Утопия | Pathologic
Genre: Animal Transformation, Child Death, F/F, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Suicide, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 11:42:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16062398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: just lots of sad thingschapters unrelated to each other





	1. suicide

   "What have you done this time?" Andrey asked, still half-smiling.

   It was the customary question, passed back and forth between the two of them. The little ritual had once made it easier for them to tell each other things by blurring the lines between events unspeakable and the necessary accidents of the day. I made a fool of myself. I have a new enemy, but we are still on speaking terms. I killed someone. I did something that I cannot explain and can't quite remember. I made someone who loves me cry. The line between minor and serious had disappeared entirely by now. It had been heading that way since the beginning, each wound taken and inflicted still left a mark but the depth or scale of its was lost in the clotted blood and white net of scars. And that was the way of everything, an endless descent. Peter tried to remember if it had ever stopped. There had been moments irreplaceable, ecstatic creation, the Polyhedron. Yet, he himself, had his continued existence ever been anything but rotting away from the inside? He had tried to mask it, keep the dead center of himself hidden, but it had devoured every part of him leaving nothing untainted. He was so close now to becoming who he truly was, what he always had been. He shut his eyes, turned and rested his forehead against the smoke-stained wall, hiding in the corner of the pub booth as if he could disappear entirely if he was just quiet enough. His thoughts were blurred for a moment, then clear again. He felt completely certain of what he had to do. He had not felt that way for years. He folded his hands, and turned to face Andrey.

   "Do you remember what I asked you, it was summer, just after your dog had been killed?" Peter asked.

   Andrey leaned back, crossed his hands behind his head. Memories of that long ago were flimsy things, difficult to grasp hold of. But he caught this one and his face changed. He leaned forward with elbows on the table, brow furrowed.

   "Yes and I told you that you were out of your mind," Andrey said, voice heavy with pain. "What is this about? What are you telling me?"

   "But you agreed in the end," Peter said. "That if it came to that, you would kill me."

   Andrey grasped Peter's hands in both of his own.

   "I never said that. At least, I didn't mean it. What is bothering you so much? Have a drink. Forget it. It will pass," said Andrey.

   "It is not something outside hovering over and then fading away. You know what it is and you know what I mean. And, you should realize that I cannot let this go on. I cannot allow myself to continue living. If you cannot help me with it, then so be it. But, you must let me go," Peter replied.

   "That isn't you," said Andrey. "You're not well. I won't let you do this."

   Peter shook his head.

   "You won't let me? What will you do, tie me like a dog? Lock me in jail? Your heart can't bear that."

   Peter left the pub. Rain was falling hard. Thin streams had formed in the streets running over cobblestones, collecting in brown puddles, making their way down to the river. The streets were quiet, most people having taken shelter in houses and stores. There were two drunks laughing together by the bridge, a few children sheltering under eaves. He arrived home drenched, but the rain was a comfort washing away distraction and hesitance.


	2. digimon crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw graphic child death

    Peter was certain that this was a dream. Dreams could be, sometimes, when not impossibly heavy, far more malleable than waking life. So there must be some way to put everything back together as it once was, whole and unbroken. To put the seeping brain matter back into its cradle, to arrange the pieces of shattered skull and have them all fit back again like a puzzle meant to be fixed, there must be a way. It was not as if he had never seen anyone die before, but watching this child die while another child stood by helpless was more than he could bear. Yet, he had to bear it. Even in a dream, there was no way he pull someone back out of death's mouth. How could the child's skull have been smashed in that way, out here on the edge of an empty beach? The dark ocean lapped at the dying child. The tide was rising. The water reddened and the gasping, broken breath mercifully ceased. The child was dead. The waves covered the child and pulled him into the dark, imperturbable ocean. The child who was left behind was just as the ocean was, showing no sign of what had occurred other than a red stain that would soon wash away.

   "Why are you here?" the child asked.

   Peter was unsure if the question had been directed towards him. He'd assumed he was invisible in this world.

   "I don't know... Its really just a dream, isn't it?" Peter asked.

   "Its something like a dream, I think," the child said. "Or a memory. But things have gotten mixed up with the other worlds..."

   The child's voice trailed away. He closed his eyes tightly.

   "I keep forgetting things. The Demon Lord of Atonement..." the child said, voice trailing away again into incomprehensible muttering.

   Something very large seemed to be moving just under the ocean's surface and disturbing the flow of the waves. Peter wanted them to get far, far away from whatever it was.

   "Come this way," Peter said, beckoning to the child. "To the forest."

* * *

   On a cliff's edge, barely clinging to earth, looking out over the sea, was a twisted wind-made structure of black rock. On its roof many spires, claw-like and accusatory, pointed towards heaven. It was not the Demon's Nest, but it was a ghost of one that once existed and had been created long ago by something forgotten that had fallen asleep here. Even though it was nested in at the moment, it was still a dead place. No movement through its maze-like halls would ever cause it to wake again, so in many ways it was a useless building. But Laylamon and the others had been drawn to it. It was a broken toy once precious to someone else that they couldn't help but feel affection for.  
Laylamon sat cross-legged on a bed. It was an illusion that Bagramon had made for her. Her hair was not done up in her usual fashion. It was long down her back, tangled and dirty. She watched with growing irritation Beelzebumon's pacing in circles.

   "If you're that worried than go with him," Laylamon said.

   Lucemon, his wings half demon and half angel, turned towards them from the window he'd been staring out at.

   "No, we need you here," Lucemon said. "I know you're worried but-"

   Beelzebumon punched the wall, sending tremors through the floor and celing.

   "Damn it, Lucy," Beelzebumon hissed, his tail twitching. "There's no way this going to work."

   Lucemon stood up, eyes wide with worry. He did not approach Beelzebumon, he knew better than that.

   "Its too late to change your mind," Lucemon said. "And its not just me you'd be betraying, all of us-"

   All the anger went out of Beelzebumon. He leaned back against the wall, head bent forward in resignation.

   "I know," Beelzebumon replied. "We're all in this together."

   His tail started twitching again though, he was unable to put the thoughts out of his mind. Laylamon growled.

   "At least go be a nervous wreck somewhere else," she said.

   The two of them, Beelzebumon and Lucemon, had been hovering over her for weeks and she was tired of it. Without another word, head still bowed, Beelzebumon left the room.


	3. mark immortel

    heavy rain, like liquid light, burning holes in his scalp drenching his clothes, clenched his jaw to keep from trembling. April rain is so cold. and a thin dog crouching in a doorway, waiting for it to stop. thoughts brushed past, "contain me". he is scarlet flame and blue night, can turn angels to fiends and canonize demons. he must be something, anything. if he is nothing he will fade and die. so he will be all of them, as he watches them. as they watch him in turn. and he will be nothing, like air impossible to fracture.

   he watches peter. peter who is so important, so loved, so hated, not nearly as complicated as seems. really quite simple, really quite easy. good intentions? if that's what he wishes to believe he has, well, then he will. no way to change his mind about anything when he can't think anything anymore. he wants to strangle him.

   I WISH I WAS DEAD BUT I BROUGHT THIS UPON MYSELF NO USE WREAKING HAVOC IN MY OWN COFFIN

   nurse of the blue moon, seashell window panes, bloody glass. licking silver.

   BURROW HOLLOW INSECt FIELD MY HAND CONTRACTS my skin feels so wrong


	4. the six swans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fairytale au yulia/eva
> 
> cw child death

    Yulia did not look at the sad, empty cradle with its little wooden sheltering sides and delicate blankets so cruelly bereft. The noose that the king's mother (her mother also) had knotted of dead rabbits and blood smeared and nettles plucked from graves- tightened around the neck of the king's nameless wife. The king had married a woman he'd found in a black oak tree sewing shirts of nettles that calloused her small hands. He called her Dear and Yulia called her Deer as well. Yulia had carefully done her best against each new poisoned half-truth that the king's mother (her mother also) had dripped out to kill Deer. Yet now, though she could still prove clearly Deer's continuing blamelessness, no one will listen to her against the planned hysterics of the queen and the cold little body. The child had pulled the earth from beneath its mother's feet.

   Swans will not shelter her. Yulia ran away, between a narrow alley, leaning houses. A few white feathers spiraled down, stuck in her short hair. Her heart, her lungs, burned in her chest a furnace of desperation looking for hope to devour. The whole earth, the streets branching out and connecting - separating, to no purpose, surely it could not all be barren of hope. There must be something. There musts be someone. Her steps lead her further, no understanding of where she is going or where she should go. She aches to return and spend her blood against an executioner's blade, but that will not grant her what she needs. A way out from fire and accusation and the eternal hand of her mother. No, her mother herself is only the hand or a finger moving in accordance with the will of a greater body. The street ends, a row of decrepit buildings in the moonlight. A small, crushed church cowers between two larger encroaching buildings. On the steps crouching, Yulia recognized an old woman with a basket woven in strange symbols. She had promised to help her. The woman meets her gaze but does not speak. She waits and the night, the little church, the branching streets wait with her.  
  
    Yulia stumbled back, bare sky swimming overhead. A drowning pain, anger and despair, burned her hollow while the old woman laughed. Yulia collapsed, skull split, bones breaking themselves and reforming as she howled. The blood of another animal sang in her heart. The night sharpened its edges. Scent filled in the gaps of her once human sight and with a low growl at the continuing pain, Yulia leapt forwards. Yulia, a white wolf.

   The guards drew back as she approached, a wolf larger than most wolves and unafraid of fire. They knew her purpose there, supposed her yet another familiar. She broke their spears with her teeth, and leapt to the the stake where Deer was lashed straw still yet unlit. She tore the ropes with her claws as the guards set fire to the straw. Deer did not hesitate but at once climbed to her back and clung tightly. A spear pierced Yulia's side and she stumbled just for a moment. She heard the guard's cry of pain. She did not look back, but leapt to the ground and raced off down the streets. She heard following her, not guards but other paws. A few horsemen came after them reluctantly, they were afraid but it was a point of pride now that the king not be defied by animals and witches. Just as she began to fear for Deer's safety from arrows, she heard those paws following her fall back and drag the rider's from their horses and tear out their throats. She ran until she fell exhausted, just inside the edge of the forest where Deer cradled her head in her lap and whispered to her so gently and told her that her name was Eva.


	5. eva doesn't die

   The cathedral, dark and somewhat warm as if a fire raged deep in its core, submerged Eva as she stepped inside it. She ran her fingers lightly across the stone wall as she walked fast, giddy, practically skipping. Her mind was not aware of the rough stone, the heavy marble, the red glass that made up the solid existence of the cathedral. She held in her mind the higher reality of it. She saw a barren nest, a heartless body, an animal without a soul. Within her form, which would decay, was the star which could light the cathedral's darkness if she would only give it away. If she would trust. If she would believe. She climbed the stairs two at a time. She had to stay quick and light, so that fear and doubt would not catch her. At the top of the stairs, in front of the window, was a shadow, vague and amorphous in the half-light. She stopped still, and fear convulsed her. She tripped backwards, almost tumbling down the stairs, but the shadow caught her by the wrist and pulled her forwards.

   The shadow was Peter. Eva's ritual had been interrupted. She swayed back and forth, considering. Perhaps he was only a hapless observer, accidentally stumbling upon something which he saw but did not understand. Perhaps this was as it should be, that he should be a witness to her sacrifice. Perhaps... The blood still dripped slowly from her opened wrists. She was too dizzy, too spinning. Her body was distant from her. Her movements were too slow.

   Eva relented, slowly. It wasn't true that her life was so important, but if he wished to think so she was willing to let him. She let him hold her hands, let him wrap her wrists in shreds of cloth. She leaned against him, and clung to his arm. It was hard for her to walk. She felt too light. She let him lead her out of the cathedral, through the dark streets. She let him say, soft and low, quiet enchanting things, telling her a story where she is an angel. It was a true story. She felt her white feathers extend and shield the two of them. They passed guards, murderers, and arsonists unnoticed. When they arrived at Andrey's pub, her strength gave out. She had lost much blood. It had soaked through the bandages, left a trail of crimson raindrops behind her. Peter picked her up and carried her inside, through the back door where Andrey's room was, not the pub entrance. Andrey was, as usual, not inside. Peter laid Eva down in Andrey's bed, and went into the pub to fetch Andrey.

   The pub was dim, silent, and mostly empty. There were two men at the bar, sitting as far apart as possible from each other and drinking twyrine. Andrey had fallen asleep in a booth. He'd balled up his coat into a make-shift pillow, and sprawled out in an matter that appeared uncomfortable. His hands were bandaged with cloth. He had a black eye, his shirt was spattered with blood, and his shoes were muddy. Despite all this, he appeared to be happy and contented like a kitten that had played until it passed out from exhaustion. Peter shook him by the shoulders. Andrey startled awake, reaching for his knife.

   "Damn it," Andrey said. "Whats the matter?"

   "I've brought Eva here," Peter said. "I thought perhaps you could help her, though I'm starting to doubt that now."

   Andrey stood up and pulled on his rumpled coat.

  "Where is she? Whats happened to her?" he asked.


End file.
